


Of Romanticism

by PumpkinBrit



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 20:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinBrit/pseuds/PumpkinBrit
Summary: Or, the one in which Roman wishes he was allowed to keep something for himself.





	Of Romanticism

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is, for now, a one shot study into Romans world. Might make it a full Roman angst collection, if anyone shows interest!

Ah yes, romance. Something Roman is all too familiar with. The tingling of a new found crush, the exhilaration of courtship! An underrated art form in our modern age! All that said, being the romantic side was awful. Despairingly, disastrously, depressingly awful. The sort of awful that gave you a sour taste on the back of your tongue.

This should all be prefaced with the knowledge of how exactly romance works, when you’re only a piece of a much bigger person. Each of the sides, Logan, Roman, Virgil, Patton, have their individual interests. Tastes, habits, little ticks that make their chests ache for loves sweet embrace. When all of the sides fall for one person, that feeling transfers to Thomas, and the crush is now his to deal with. This isn’t the only way, though, if one of the sides feels powerfully enough they can bypass the others entirely and have Thomas assume instant attraction. Roman does this more than the others. They don’t appreciate it, Or at least Logan doesn’t. Patton does his best to be supportive and he thinks Virgil is just too afraid to mention it.

Today, Roman paces his room, followed by one intense stage-light that sends his shadow sprawling against the wall, a projection of his insides. He had feelings for someone. Has. Had, has and will, he supposes, because he can’t see any immediate end to the notion. Normally a good scripted presentation lifts some of the heaviness on his heart but it’s becoming woefully ineffective. With a flick of his wrist stage curtains draw closed, and just like that the set melds around him and he’s deposited into his bedroom. 

He groans, catching sight of himself in his mirror, eyeing the heavy set bruises forming out of his refusal to give his ego the satisfaction of declaring this grand adoration. He wants to, the butterflies in his stomach have long long resorted back to caterpillars squirming and knocking him nauseous with each flickering thought that lingers too long on a face he can’t hold. But he can’t. This is the minds punishment. Ugly, purple blossoms. He pushes back his hair with a hand in an attempt to regain some normality and pride. 

Why can’t he? A very valid question. If he were to come forward, rant and rave about the hunger he sees in his eyes, and the way each and every shirt he owns has begun to smell just as he remembers him, he would be shot down. 

Yes.

Logan would be the first, He’s the least likely to sugar coat it. He’d lay out the facts, they’d only met this man what? Four times, perhaps five, and only two of these were verbal. They don’t know if he’s financially stable, never mind emotionally! And Thomas can’t risk a distraction at the point in his life.

Patton next, attempting to soften the blow with that gentle smile and soft pat on the back. It’s not as comforting as it should be. He’d remind Roman of ‘all of the fish in the sea’ to which Roman would bitterly think that he was not a fisherman by any account. He’d be told of the time they’d seen him reject a charity donation pot, be told of the moral conflict, whether love meant more than ideals. He can’t bring his heart to claim it knew.

Then Virgil, he’s neither ruthless nor comforting. He’s afraid, of the new, of the strange, of the chance of rejection and the constant threat of loss should they begin something new. Roman doesn’t let his imagination wander too far with this one, it makes him twitchy.

He turns away from the looking glass, and takes a seat neatly on the end of his bed, fingers tapping irritably on his thigh as he waits for his head to dream up something new and fresh to distract from the whole ordeal. It takes too long, and he stands again, and then sits again at the burning in his joints. More bruises. He can’t hide it forever, he wasn’t built that way. He’s loud, he’s proud, he’s love. 

He glances at his hands through lidded eyes. Untouched. Still pale. Still practically perfect in each and every way. He has a little while longer then, until he’s so battered he isn’t given a choice in admitting his longing. Until then he vows to lay here, and do nothing but hold that feeling, that face, that smell close. 

Until the next one comes.


End file.
